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Bird Island, Chapter 5: It on the Lawn

Patrick Fealey

    The old it in the white breaks up the dirt and hides the seeds. It takes off its straw hat, puts a white cloth to its head and leaves. Bird comes in over the black roof of its house and lands in its field of soil, damp and mixed with cows. Bird uncovers the corn it has hidden for Bird.

    The old it makes it fast. It hides the corn so Bird can walk along. Bird sees where the ground is touched and pushes the soil to see the yellow seed. Large black birds come to the field of dirt to eat the corn. The black birds fly away when the old human with the white shirt comes out of its house carrying a stick that reflects the sun.

    The old human walks toward Bird.
    “Why don’t you fly with your friends? Do you think I won’t shoot you?”
    The old human moves its stick. It walks toward Bird.
    “You don’t look injured. You eat like a horse.”
    It stops. It has a white head with shining blue eyes. “You’re not afraid.” It steps toward Bird. Bird hops away from it. “There you go. Keep going, bird.”
    It knows Bird? Bird stops. But Bird doesn’t know it.
    “What is it now? I’m trying to give you a chance at life.”

    The sound pushes Bird flat into the dirt. The black birds fly. Bird stands with Bird’s head above the seedlings. The old human with the white shirt is coming down the slope carrying the loud stick that reflects the sun. It is the old human who knows Bird’s name and who has allowed Bird to eat its corn. It is talking.
    “You again? Do you want to die? Can’t you see how much work I put into this garden? No, you can’t. It looks like a supermarket to you, doesn’t it? This is all a big game to you and your friends, isn’t it? When I shoot this thing you are supposed to fly away, but no, you want to turn this into the Alamo. My wife wants me to make an example outa one of you birds, hang you up for the rest to see. Are you volunteering? . . . Damn, I never noticed one of you up close before. Your feathers are purple in the sun, shining . . . And green. You act like you’re listening, but I know all you’re thinking about is corn. You thieving little tramp.”
    The old human turns and walks back up to its house. It goes up the stairs to the deck and takes its stick inside. Bird flies up and lands on the edge of the roof. The island spreads out and the blue comes in. It walks back out on the deck and stands below Bird. Its hair is white with a small circle of tan skin on back. It does not see Bird. It is looking at the yard and down the hill at the corn dirt. Bird is not there. There is a rusted wire fence at the bottom of the hill where the trees are. The wire comes up the sides of the field.
    A voice comes from inside the house. Its mate: “You should have killed it. You need an example.”
    “There is no use in killing one crow,” the old human says.
    “How do you know if you don’t try?”
    “I know because they are too hungry to be fooled with.”
    “We’ll see who the hungry fool is.”
    “We don’t need this garden to live. And I’m not going to shoot that crow. I’m not going to blow away a bird with a 12 guage at six feet. What do you think I am?”
    “You’re no farmer.”
    “Maybe not. And that’s no crow. He might be somebody’s pet or something, for all I know. He isn’t afraid of me and he seems healthy. He comes and goes.”
    “How do you know he isn’t sick?”
    “I don’t for sure, but he flies like a bird and eats like a horse.”
    “Maybe he’s got mental problems.”
    “If this wasn’t for pleasure, I’d be harder. But I wouldn’t shoot that bird first. I don’t know what he is, but I’ve looked him in the eyes and they’re as bright and clear as anybody’s I’ve ever met.”
    “Fortunately, not everyone’s as sympathetic as you. Have you seen the lawn lately?”
    “I’m letting it grow. I want to cut you a good outline of where the pool will go. It’s only spring and it feels like August.”
    “That’s an expense.”
    “Last time I checked we could afford our own island.”
    “You’ve been talking about that for years.”
    “This is pool weather.”
    “It’s a hole in the yard.”
    “It’s an oasis.”
    “You know I don’t swim.”
    “The grandchildren do.”
    “We live on an island. They can go to the beach.”
    “This just struck you?”
    “I was born in the city. The ocean is of only aesthetic interest to me.”
    “Unlike your DAR meetings.”
    “I don’t force you to go.”
    “No. You just can’t drive.”
    The old human shakes his head and looks at the yard.
    “This is a big lawn for an old man to cut with a push-mower, Dorothy. Most people with lawns this size have riders or Mexicans. If my corn ever survives the ravages of these crows, you could call our property a farm. Yes, a John Deere is an expense. But the doctor told me not to push myself. In fact, he said to get a rider before this season.”
    “ . . .”
    “Dorothy?”
    “What?”
    “You reading that genealogy - again? How can you people be so interested in these dead people and not in people who are here, now, alive? People like your grandchildren, or like your husband?”
    “Are you judging or merely criticizing? The past is who we are.”
    “Whatever those dead people gave me is mine, now.”
    “What do you want for lunch?”
    “Nothing.”
    “You have to eat.”
    “A rider is a tool for work and you don’t seem to have anything against work.”
    “Did you take your medicine?”

    The old human with the white shirt pulls the grass machine out of the little house. It pushes it into the sun. It goes back and comes out with a can and pours stinking water into the machine. Bird smells the bad water where Bird stands on the barbed wire. It stands and pulls a white cloth from its back pocket and wipes the front of its head.

    It looks at Bird.

    Bird looks at it.

    It looks at the grass machine and leans into it. It pulls fast and it growls and is silent. It pulls again and it barks and bites. The barbed wire trembles in bird’s feet. Smoke blows away from the loud grass machine. The old human pushes the machine into its field. The sound is softened by the grass. Grasshoppers fly ahead of its mouth as it spits out clumps of green smelling field. Bird stays where Bird is.

    The air is dust and flies. The old human goes to the back of its field and pushes the machine from east to north to west to south to east. It continues inside these four sunken lines and corners, its mouth speaking to this ground. It is cutting a field next to its corn field.

    Will it dig up the earth and hide corn for Bird?

    It is quiet.

    The old human walks from the machine to the end of the field it has just made. It stands with its feet at the edge of the cut grass and moves its head up and down. It looks at Bird on the barbed wire, watching it. It smiles. It jumps up and down. It steps backward, and again. It looks straight out ahead. Fast, it takes three steps and both feet hit the ground together at the edge of the new field: its arms are above its head and it bounces into the air and falls fast with a bad sound. It hits the ground and rests on its stomach and face. It does not move. The old human in the white shirt lay still in the grass. Bird flies over. Bird lands near the old human and walks to it. What has happened? The old human who knows Bird has it bad. Bird walks in circles. Bird flaps Bird’s wings and cries out. Bird is unable, Bird’s friend.
    The white head moves and Bird is caught in the blue eyes. Bird jumps back.
    It laughs.
    “I’m not tryna fly, bird. I’m only tryna swim.”

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